The Gun
by poestheblackcat
Summary: What story would the Colt tell us if it could speak and feel? It has, after all, witnessed many strange and fearful things in its 173 years.


AN: This fic is a little weird…it's written from the Colt's point of view, yes, the Colt, as in the supernatural anything-killing gun. And yes, it has feelings and thoughts. And yes, I'm off my meds…j/k.

I did some pretty extensive research for this fic, like about guns, lore on different kinds of woods, etc. Correct me if I'm wrong on anything.

Disclaimer: I am Lilith and I have the Colt. Okay, fine. I don't own anything, not even Dean's soul (anymore, darn it). Happy? I'm not.

**The Gun**

"_God made man, but Samuel Colt made them equal." -- Advertising slogan for Colt Manufacturing_

The Gun came into existence that night in December 1835, the night those men died at the Alamo and the comet blazed fire in the heavens. Its barrel was molded of consecrated iron, its stock carved from the wood of the elder tree.

The usual steel, the maker knew, would not do for this gun, nor would the walnut wood he normally used for the stock. No, this gun was special. In later years it would be known as the legendary Colt. Not the colt, but The Colt. The only gun known to be in existence to possess the power to slay any evil creature.

Consecrated iron, known among those who dabbled in the supernatural to repel ghosts and an array of other phantasmal creatures of the dark, would do for the barrel. A sturdy metal, it would hold well against time. Engraved with every known device the maker knew to keep away demons, _evilness_, it would hold its own against the monsters that plagued the unwitting world. Words from the Bible, "non timebo mala"—"I will fear no evil," would no doubt help its power and also offer strength to its bearer.

In his standard Paterson model of a few years previously, the maker had used walnut for the butt. Now, walnut was a good wood, a beautiful hard wood, but it would not do for the maker's purposes that night. Walnut offered no protection against the evil forces which he planned for the Gun to destroy. Elder. That was the wood to use. Elder carried a long history with magic and enchantment. It was known as the "death-tree," and was also valued for its protective qualities, often buried with the dead to ward off evil spirits, worn as a charm against evil and witchcraft, and hung in doorways for protection against earthbound spirits such as vampires. It also had the power to bless a person, place, or thing and was the traditional tool for making an assortment of magical tools. Elder was the symbol of the thirteenth moon of the Celtics which lasted from late November to late December; it was early December now. The wood cut from the tree at this time would be at its most powerful.

Lovingly fashioned, and with a pentagram carved in its side, the elderwood stock was a perfect match for the blessed iron barrel. Its internal mechanisms were perfect. With careful cleaning and loving care, the Gun should last many lifetimes.

Ah, but every gun needs bullets; it was only natural that an extraordinary gun should fire extraordinary bullets. Thirteen were cast that night, companions to the Gun, of blessed silver, holy water, and an assortment of other supernatural repellants. They were guaranteed to be toxic against any evil creature. Each bore a devil's trap as well as a number, one through thirteen. Thirteen, a powerful, magical number.

The Gun thrummed with power and excitement as its maker held it in his hand. Eagerly, it waited to be cocked, for its trigger to be pulled, longed to fire.

The first bullet should have killed a demon. At the last moment, the maker lowered the Gun, and said, "I suppose I should kill you, Demon, but as thanks for assisting me in building this gun, I shall not. For now. If I see you again, however…" The maker did not finish his threat before the black smoke poured from the host's mouth. The Gun would have drooped in disappointment at being denied its kill, if it were not for its pride. Being the only gun in existence to be able to kill a demon did warrant a little pride, after all.

As it turned out, the maker had built the Gun at the request of a Hunter, a killer of evil, the supernatural. But the Hunter, though he thought the Gun had been made for him, was mistaken. He didn't know it, but he was not the true Master of the Gun. How it knew it could not discern, but it was certain that when its Master came along, it would know, feel it in its chambers, in every part of its being.

This Hunter, the Gun's first owner, used eight bullets before being slain by an especially vengeful spirit. The Gun was passed on to a distant relative, its secrets to remain hidden in its special wooden case for a little over a hundred years. With the passing of so many generations, the tales of the Gun that could kill anything became a legend, a story, the Holy Grail of supernatural weapons.

And so it was that a Hunter of vampires discovered it, partly based on research well done and partly due to luck. He hoarded the Gun in his safe, locked tight against the world, useless to fight against the evil it knew was lurking outside. And there it remained for many years.

Then it was that a Hunter, a different man from the one who had placed the Gun in the safe, took it out. As it was lifted from its box, it hummed in excitement. It had found Him, the Hunter whom the Gun knew in its innermost mechanisms that He was its true owner, its Master. The gun sang with joy at His strangely familiar touch. But its jubilation was short-lived.

Its Master wanted to use the Gun to kill a demon, a very powerful, yellow-eyed demon. The Gun felt, knew, that this demon had caused its Master much pain in His young life, and it wanted revenge. It wanted blood, evil, tainted, demon blood. It could do nothing but watch in dismay, however, when it was jerked away from its Master as the demon threw Him against the wall and taunted Him.

The demon left, and so did the Master. It was retrieved by the same Hunter who had kept it prisoner for so many years and put back in its case. The Gun ached at the abandonment. Little did it know that they would not meet again for over thirty years, or that the Master would be younger then than He had been at their first meeting. Strange, perhaps, but that would not phase the Gun. After all, who had ever heard of a gun that could kill anything? And so, the Gun waited impatiently for its Master to return, to be taken out of this infernal box.

Until the vampire Hunter, now old, took it out of its confinement, and it celebrated its newfound freedom. But it was not to be. The Hunter was killed by the vampires who had trailed and attacked him, drained of his life's blood, ravaged by the vicious bloodthirsty things. The Gun lay on the ground near him, helpless. But not for long. It was picked up by one of the creatures, the filthy thing. It could scent the death on her, the undead woman, no, monster.

But this vampiress, she was young yet. Though if the Gun had any say, she would not see another night. She brought it to her lair, her nest. It was showed off as a prize for her mate. The Gun smoldered in humiliation and disgust at the depths it had fallen to, at being touched and handled by such unclean beings.

The Gun recognized the creature. This vampire was much older than its mate. Not as old as the Gun, but old enough. The third bullet had been used to kill his sire. How fitting that he was killed by the ninth. The Gun could appreciate the perfection of the numbers; three was such a powerful number, and three threes were nine—perfect.

The man who shot the bullet raised a trill of excitement in the Gun; the energy it felt from him was almost Him, its Master, close but not quite. But never mind that. The Gun relished being in use again, after lying so long in the dark, being taken out only to be carefully cleaned and put back in its special prison. It experienced immense satisfaction as it felt the bullet leave its barrel in a flash and hit its target with a sickening crunch, the wound lighting up, the evil energies of the creature dying, fading.

And then they were reunited, the Gun and its Master. His calloused well-worn fingers ghosted over its engravings, its protective inscriptions. "Non timebo mala," and indeed, it had no fear of evil. Neither did the Master. The Gun thrummed in pleasure at the gentle touch. It couldn't wait. It had work to do.

The next bullet wasn't fired by the Master, however. The shooter was an even younger man, who felt like the Master, yet was not. This man, this boy, felt dark, tainted. He was not a demon, the Gun could feel that, and he meant to do good, not evil. The Master trusted him with the Gun. The boy had the same goal as the Master—to kill the yellow-eyed demon. But he missed. The creature disappeared, and the bullet, the special bullet, was lost. Only three left. The Gun shuddered in disappointment and frustration.

Bullet number eleven killed a demon, the son of the yellow-eyed demon, no less. At last! Fresh demon blood, stinking of sulfur, gushing red onto the pavement. The Gun rejoiced. And the one who pulled the trigger was its Master, oh happy day! And yet it could sense that the Master was not as content with the kill as it was. The Master felt for the human that was the host, whom the bullet also killed when it destroyed the demon inside. He was troubled that He could kill another without a thought if it was to protect His brother or His father. The Gun ached deeply for Him, for His loss of…innocence.

The use of the twelfth bullet left the Gun with mixed feelings. It felt the shooter, the boy again, brother of the Gun's Master, fight within himself to decide whether to aim the barrel at his father's heart to slay the demon inside once and for all, or not to, as the Master commanded, no, not commanded, pleaded, begged. The Gun thirsted for demon blood, yellow-eyed demon blood, but not at the expense of the flesh and blood of its Master. No, it thought, as it spit out the bullet at the demon host's leg, this was as it should be. It would be the last bullet, the thirteenth bullet, that would slay the demon. It had to be. It was its destiny, its purpose.

And so it was, but not for another year, for the demon's former host, the father of the Master, the ungrateful wretch, traded the Gun and his own soul (perhaps the Gun had misjudged him) to the demon for the life of the Master. The Gun's beloved Master, its true bearer, was dying, his life-spirit being slowly drained. And so the Gun, the demon-killing Colt, came to be in the possession of the yellow-eyed demon. It sickened the Gun to be kept prisoner by such a filthy creature, pure evil, the stench of sulfur and death choking it at times. For a year, the Gun remained silent, shuddering in repulsion at the thought of its state of being. Oh, how it longed to be free again, to slay evil, instead of standing by as its new owner, the foul-breathed soul-snatcher, life destroyer, roamed over the land, making its sinister plans. How it longed to be in its Master's strong and steady hands again.

Then it was handed over to a new person. This young man stunk of evil, too, not as nauseating as the demon's reek, but enough. The Gun was carried to near its birthplace, over lines of iron, and into a cemetery. It quivered in apprehension for the use it felt it would be put to now, for in addition to being able to kill any supernatural creature, it was also a key. The key for the most dangerous lock in the world. The Gun, Samuel Colt's special gun, could unlock the Devil's Gate, located right in the middle of Wyoming. Once opened, the Gate would vomit out all the evil of Hell into the unsuspecting world.

No, it would not be a part of that. The Gun tried to shy away from the hole, tried to shrink into itself, warp the metal of its barrel, anything to keep from being used for such an evil purpose. But no such luck. It was unceremoniously shoved into the lock and the mechanism turned. With a series of clicks and groans of rotating metal, the doors of purgatory burst open and black smoke exploded outward. The armies of Hell were unleashed into the world.

Then the Gun felt His presence. The Master reached out and pulled it from the lock. Too late to stop the surge of evil coming from the gate, but the Gun felt it was almost time for its purpose. Its true destiny was near. It was tonight that it would finish its job. For why else would it have fallen back into His hands? The Gun vibrated in its eagerness to taste demon blood.

But what happened next, the Gun could not have anticipated. Nor could its Master. As the gates of Hell were pushed closed, it was wrenched from His grasp as He was flung into a headstone like a limp rag doll. The Gun flew into the demon's hands, and almost spewed out its gunpowder at the stench. _No_, it mourned, it couldn't be back in the creature's possession. It had been so close, they had been so close, the Gun and it Master, to fulfilling their quest.

As the demon was whispering foul suggestions into the Master's ear, the Gun felt a familiar presence. Could it be? No, the Master's father had sold his soul to the devil, but yet, the doors to Hell had been open, hadn't they? The Gun was dropped as the ghostly spirit latched onto the demonic essence inside the human host and dragged it out in a quick tussle. That moment of distraction was all that was needed, for in that moment the Master grabbed the Gun, the demon-slaying Colt, and together they fired the last bullet, the thirteenth bullet, into the chest of the yellow-eyed demon.

The Gun sang out in triumph. Though completely empty of ammunition, the Gun could not have felt more satiated. The demon was dead, its purpose for existence was fulfilled.

"That was for our mom, you son of a bitch." The Gun's thoughts exactly.

And now what? Was it now just a useless hunk of metal and wood? A gun that was once special and now retired? No, it had work to do, didn't it? But who would fix it to make it work again, give it the power to kill demons once again? Not the old man. Though his fingers had held some magic before, woven a few enchantments, the Gun knew this was not the one who would be able to fix it. The only being in all the world who could…

"Now…do you want me to help you out with that gun or not?" The Gun's would-be first victim, the demon Samuel Colt had threatened 172 years before.

The Colt was back in business, kicking demon butt. It thrummed in anticipation.

AN: So, what did you think? Too flowery? Should I start running away from the rotten tomato-carrying rock-slinging mob? I can run pretty fast when I really want to.


End file.
